


The Walls Will Crumble

by teprometo



Series: The Walls Will Crumble [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-09
Updated: 2008-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was rumoured that Potter only talked to paintings and ghosts. He had no use for the living anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Walls Will Crumble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [hp_darkfest](http://community.livejournal.com/hp_darkfest/6617.html) on LiveJournal.
> 
> Based on the prompt:  
> "There are two tragedies in life. One is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it."  
> – Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw
> 
> This was my first fic.

He had me bowed down low, as if to a god. Potter had been deified by the wizarding world for nearly two decades now and perhaps it had gone to his head. My prostration faced the bare walls, my forehead resting on the cool stone floor. Bent that way, it was not the floor I worshipped, but rather what was happening on top of it.

He was behind me, cock sunk deep in my arse. Potter’s throat was undoubtedly still coated with my come when he emptied himself inside me. I painted the floor with seed that could have frozen on impact. It was not only the unforgiving stone that caused the icy atmosphere but also the flavour of two enemies, rational again, after spending themselves fucking.

 

Of the many times we’ve fucked in these three months, that was the first. I had stumbled across him one evening while making my Prefect rounds. He was sitting alone in an empty classroom staring at a wall. Despite my antagonism, he was silent and still. Two years ago my presence alone would have been enough to make his heart beat faster, blood pumping to every part of him, staining his cheeks (and later my sheets). He would spit curses at me and I’d lap them up like a puppy sick for attention.

After Aunt Bella murdered my bestial second cousin, after father was punished by the Dark Lord for his failure, after whatever happened that night at the Ministry mother refused to speak of, Potter had changed.

Until Christmas of sixth year, there was a conspicuous opening at the Gryffindor table between Granger and the Weasel. The seat’s occupant had drawn my attention at every meal for years. Potter’s absence, it proved, was even more alluring than his presence. No one could look away from the evidence of his not being there.

During this period, I learned more about Mudblood and Ginger than I had ever cared to know. Potter had distracted me from the fledglings. With him gone and that very goneness holding my attention, I could do nothing but watch them.

After Christmas, it seemed they had given up on Potter. The crushing silence, the palpable distance between Granger and Weasley was closed. They filled the gap left by their missing friend and Gryffindor House went on without its figurehead. Potter was finally forgotten by everyone who had once sworn to follow him to any end.

Dumbledore’s wisdom failed him. He thought it best to give Potter the space he wanted. Pushing him would only damage him further. He lived away from Gryffindor Tower. No one knew where. A security precaution, Dumbledore said, to keep him from being disturbed. He did not come to meals. Instead, the barmy old House-Elf Potter released from my family’s service anticipated his every need. It was rumoured that Potter only talked to paintings and ghosts. He had no use for the living anymore.

Dumbledore was confident in the weekly sessions he had with Potter. Every week he expected a breakthrough. He was never disappointed because he never lost hope. I once overheard a spat between him and the Deputy Headmistress. She begged him to see reason, to force Potter back into his House, back into his lessons (he was tutored privately in every subject but Potions, as Professor Snape refused to indulge Potter’s melodrama), but the Headmaster would not budge.

During this time I became so sick and starved for Potter’s presence that I spent every morsel of free time roaming about the castle searching for him. I once caught sight of him walking to Dumbledore’s office. It had been months since I’d seen him last on the Hogwarts Express, crouched in a compartment speaking to his owl. The sight had been so saddening that I didn’t think it necessary to antagonise him.

So when I saw him in the hallway that day, eyes trained on his feet, I stopped dead. I feasted on him, drank in his presence like so much wine. I became intoxicated by the mere confirmation of his continued existence. He kept walking and I dumbly followed him with my eyes until he disappeared in the staircase to Dumbledore’s office. The next three weeks I perched by that gargoyle statue trying to catch Potter on his walk, but to no avail.

Later, when I heard of the map he used to spy on the location of people in the castle, I imagined him sitting in some hidden room laughing at the image of my name scouring the castle in vain, looking for him. This thought almost stopped my search, but the need for him was stronger than my own sense of humiliation, so I trekked out again. It occurs to me now how absurd my fears were. Potter was too far gone for amusement, even at my plight.

It came as quite a shock when the vanished Potter mysteriously reappeared seventh year. He was tangibly different. It wasn’t just the appearance of him that shocked people, though that in itself was quite different. He had resorted to wearing oversized Muggle clothing. His black hair was even messier and his frame had gotten frightfully angular. He had stopped wearing his glasses, too. He was no longer a part of the world and nothing in it interested him enough to want to see it.

Perhaps the rumours were true and he had been associating with the resident ghosts. He had taken on many of their qualities, including the blatant disregard for the presence of other objects and people in his path of motion. It didn’t matter because the world moved around him, as it always had. It was different now, though. People scattered out of fear, not reverence. I had made my resolve never to move for him but I didn’t test it because Potter never came my way.

Still, in the lessons we shared, he sat closer to me than to his old best friends. They sat close together, sharing secrets and sometimes saliva. He did not pay them any more mind than the others. That included me.

It was painful for me not to be an exception anymore. In the past, Potter had remained kind and sensible with everyone but me unless provoked. I was the recipient of his wrath, the one he loved to despise whether or not I harassed him. This new Potter did not have any care to except me from the bunch. I was as unremarkable as every other living thing. Except for the owl. She was his only tie to the world of the breathing.

So when I found him sitting there in an empty classroom, I expected the same silence and disregard as always. I poked and prodded and received no payoff.

But then something strange happened. He spoke.

“There was once a mirror here,” he said, disconnected and ghostlike. Though it didn’t surprise me, it terrified me to hear so much death in his voice. I had not heard him speak since fifth year.

I did not have time at that moment to consider why out of all the people surrounding him, he picked me to finally speak to. In retrospect I see two options. The first being that I was the one who did not give up on him: I was far too obsessed to let him disappear into the walls of the school the way the others had. The second becomes more true with each passing day. I was closest to the death to which he had confined himself. For a living person, I was not so alive as to repel him. My coldness, my single-minded will of obtaining Potter, made me closer to death than life and drew him in with familiar comfort.

I didn’t know what was going to come of this new development. Harry Potter was speaking to Draco Malfoy. I knew what I was. I was the one who would have been his arch nemesis had the Dark Lord not taken first place. I could not even land at the bottom of the heap. I was mediocre.

That night I became something inalterably unique in Potter’s history. No one would ever know about it, no book would ever tell of it, my name would never be written in relation to his unless he added me to his death toll in the impending war. That night I became the only human being that Potter would ever fuck.

Our conversation was limited to grunts and curses, identical to but still different from those of our brawls in previous years. We still hated each other obsessively, still hurt each other atrociously, and yet we were combined. This time the pleasure in our contact was mutual. He bent me and stretched me and filled me with every ounce of hatred he could still feel. He dominated me so thoroughly that I knew I would never go back to the ideas of a delicate Potter.

In the deepest layers of my fantasies, I always thought of Potter as Harry. His hand gentle and soothing in my hair, his nose inches from mine, I would sigh to him. “Harry, yes.” He would respond by pressing his mouth to mine, softly. He would trace my face with his lips so lightly that it could have been my imagination, rocking into me slowly, pulling gasps from me as easily as putting ink to parchment. In these dreams I was completely and inexorably his.

He has possessed me since the moment he rejected me. He turned away my hand in first year and my hatred for him was so consuming that every part of my life revolved around him. I wanted to destroy him, to humiliate him. I wanted to leave him bloodied and dying. I wanted to fuck him and own him. At some point it shifted and I wanted him to hold me, to make love to me. No matter how much I hated him, the desire to have him close was always stronger. Whether I was breaking his nose or pressing my face to his sweat-slick shoulder, I was close to him.

 

Today I fucked Potter for the last time. He was within me, as always in our coupling since that night in the missing-mirror room, but for the first time he faced me. I looked into his eyes and found much more than the emptiness I had expected.

At first, I didn’t think he was doing anything. A random spattering of my own thoughts flew through my mind, but I soon found that these thoughts weren’t so random. In fact, they all had a very clear theme: all of them involved Potter fucking me senseless. Of course, we were fucking, but these were not memories of previous experiences with Potter. These went further back than that.

He forced images of every fantasy about him I’d ever had back into my head. I was humiliated beyond belief to discover that Potter knew. He knew what I thought of when I was alone. He knew how badly I wanted his lips to brush gently across my skin, how much I wanted him to ask me to enter him for the first time. He had known what my cock looked like… felt like…. what my come tasted like before he had ever experienced it.

And he wouldn’t stop _looking_ at me when he did it. When he showed me everything I’d already known but that I’d previously thought he didn’t, he kept his eyes trained on mine. Even if it hadn't been necessary to keep the bond intact, I know he would have stayed his gaze on me just to suck up my horror at his knowing. I could not pretend any longer that our hunger for each other started at the same time, because he knew for a fact now that I had wanted him for six years.

When he blinked, I thought it was over. It wasn’t.

When his eyes focused on mine again, I just about died from what I saw there. It was the perfect colour and terror of _Avada Kedavra_. His irises screamed at me, wailing for the safety of their only son. Then there was the hiss of the Dark Lord’s approval followed by a schoolboy’s murder. The next sound was my own aunt’s cackling laughter as a gaunt old man fell behind a curtain.

So much noise and light and horror, and then… It was quiet. Peaceful.

It was the sensation Potter pushed against me. He filled me with love and for one foolish moment I allowed myself to believe that it was _his_ love. That somewhere inside the dead material of his soul, he managed to love me, entirely, inextricably, exactly the way it made me realise that I loved him. His love made me admit my own. But then it occurred to me that he was just regurgitating my feelings back to me. Like the images of my hand on my cock, thinking of Potter behind me, he was pouring my own love for him back inside me, through every orifice.

He was still full of death and horror. He felt only darkness. Draco Malfoy, heir of Lucius Malfoy’s blackness and pride, was lighter than Harry Potter, humble saviour of the wizarding world.

For the first time I let myself cry beneath him. He watched me as I broke down, fucked me softly for the first and last time, filled me with my love. He was not being kind. He was giving me everything I had dreamed of for years simply to torture every night I will spend without him.

Even now, I don’t dare wash his sweat from my skin. Already the taste of him is being washed away by my own traitorous saliva. I try to keep it fresh in my mind, to last me the rest of my days, however many or few they may be.

Some days I’m thankful for having received the opportunity to realise all my dreams. I spent six years wanting the impossible and being a right prat for not getting it. Now I just feel sick with the fact that nothing more remains. He made it clear every time we lost ourselves to the darkest corners of this school that I play no part in his future. We will graduate, he will save the world, and I’ll probably try to destroy it.

Only I will remember the way we melted into the cold stone of the building, our blood, sweat and come becoming more foundation to hold the world of our youth together. Hogwarts Castle will crumble the day our coupling is forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> **Rather comment on LiveJournal? Join the conversation[here](http://teprometo.livejournal.com/6040.html#comments).**


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